


Rebirth from the Ashes

by Tarek_giverofcookies, Vecieminde



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1990s, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Ballet, Beauty and the pain of dance, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Comfort, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley rebels once more, Dancer’s injuries, Developing Relationship, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Important Conversations, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Spouses, Intimacy, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Mentor Relationship, Moscow, Multi, Music, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Performance, Self-Discovery, Self-Improvement, Sexual Themes, TV series at least, The question of beliefs, Wings, dancer!Crowley, mentions of Freddie Mercury, mentor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25573573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vecieminde/pseuds/Vecieminde
Summary: Crowley hasn’t lived in London for almost a decade, fleeing from the city that does not feel quite right anymore. He spends years on working on a very personal project of his. He needs a witness. An angel.He calls him and two years later Aziraphale receives the invitation to see Crowley rebel once more.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 6
Collections: Good Omens Mini Bang





	Rebirth from the Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been written for the Good Omens Mini Bang.
> 
> My amazing collaborators are [Marleena M](https://marleenam.tumblr.com/) and [tarek_giverofcookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarek_giverofcookies/pseuds/Tarek_giverofcookies), who have provided some wonderful art!
> 
> This is a multichapter and I hope to update once a week. 
> 
> This story is based on one of my very first headcanons and this Mini Bang has offered me a perfect opportunity to finally write it down.
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> (PS still working on my series as well, so don’t worry 😉)

The weather is unpleasant. In fact, he hates it quite a lot. The wind is cold and he is not nearly enough dressed for the upcoming blizzard.  
He should have thought of that when he left his flat this morning. How much easier his life would have been if he actually never would have left the bed in the first place.

He groans. Now he wants to turn around and march back up to his flat. It is warm and has a nice view of the city. There are blankets that he can hoard around himself, perhaps make a hot cup of coffee or something. Not that it is any good here, but nothing that a small miracle can't fix.

“Blast it!” he shouts when another stronger breeze chills him to his bones and he decides that he needs a few seconds under any kind of shelter if he is to survive this walk and what comes after it.

A telephone booth to his right turns out to become his saviour. He pulls the door closed and already that force rattles the glass. This place is not that much warmer but at least it spares him from the wind.

The ginger rubs his hands together that are covered by fingerless gloves. The hems of his long wool coat are hanging open, revealing a neat black oversized shirt, tucked in the belted trousers that are very form-fitting and perfectly in line with the current fashion.

If only it weren’t so bloody cold in here.

He sighs and slides all the way down to sit on the floor of this particular booth. There is one way to keep warm and with the help of a small miracle nobody would notice him here, doing the forbidden.

Well, this is exactly what he should be doing. All that is forbidden and sinful.  
He is a demon after all.

To Heaven with that - he thinks while pulling out a cigarette case and snatching himself one from there. He puts the cigarette between his teeth and is about to tuck the case back into his coat pocket when his eyes linger on the object a little longer.

It is a vintage silver cigarette case with a delicate engraving of a slithering snake decorating it.

The demon fails to hide the fond smile when his almost numb finger runs across the engraving, but that is not the part that holds most of his sentimental value. It is the part that is inside. The part which clutches his corporation’s heart a little tighter.

‘To the new century, dear boy!

A.Z. Fell London. 1900’

Is written inside the cover of the cigarette case. The dedication is as detailedly engraved in like the snake on front.

He sighs, putting the case away and finally lighting his cigarette. The moment he pulls the deceptively warm smoke into his lungs, he feels a bit better about himself.

He glances up at the phone. The opportunity is there. He could call if he wanted to. Just deal the numbers and after connecting through the station he should be able to make that call.

An exhale and he already hears the ring of the angel's old telephone that still hangs on the wall since the end of the last century. The angel would groan a bit because who dares to interrupt him when he is in the middle of the most intriguing chapter and now his cocoa has also turned cold and somehow it will be the ringers fault.

The demon chuckles and pulls another drag.

And then the angel would reluctantly shuffle to that dreadfully annoying telephone; be either smooth or clumsy while picking up the phone, depending on the day, and then say in that professional but bit hyped and pompous manner...

"Hello! This is Mr Fell from A. Z. Fell and Co. speaking. How can I help you?" Crowley mimics the angel's tone and voice perfectly and that nostalgia costs him another chuckle and the extermination of smoke from his mouth.

Eight years. It has almost been eight years since he last was in London. Since the last time he saw that said angel who he keeps reminiscing about.

Another pull of the cigarette. The booth is already completely filled with the smoke but Crowley doesn’t care. He does not need to breathe and smoking both warms and relaxes him.

His eyes keep darting on the telephone. He doesn’t want to call.

He doesn’t want to do anything with London. He has had enough of that place for a long while.

Forget it.

And he turns to look at his gym bag. He should go. Kartashov will reprimand him if he is late.

He should leave.

Ring-ring.

"Hello! This is Mr Fell from A. Z. Fell and Co. How can I help you?"

“Aziraphale...it’s me.”

“Crowley? My dear boy...” this sentence of Principality remains unfinished. Crowley lets out a chuckle. The sound of the angel’s voice is exactly as he had imagined it to be and that thought warms up something deep in his chest.

There is a pause, however, when Crowley pulls on his cigarette and Aziraphale does not continue.

Crowley decides to help along with this conversation. He does not want Aziraphale’s voice to disappear just yet.

“Yeah, still me. Very much on Earth.”

There is a pause and Crowley begins to doubt if Aziraphale will ever speak again.

“Where on Earth exactly then, if you don’t mind me asking?”

There is slight irritation in the Principality’s voice.

So he is upset after all...

“Make a guess.”

“Crowley...”

The demon sighs: “Moscow. Good old Russia.”

“Moscow? Why Moscow of all the places?”

“Why not? It’s a perfect place to foment some delightful temptation and delicious sins. Russia is just perfect for things like that...If it wasn’t for that blasted cold weather. I need five blankets to keep myself warm. Five, angel! It is February and it does not get any better.”

A giggle from the other side makes Crowley almost drop the cigarette. It feels so good. So good to hear that sound again.

“Oh, you wily old Serpent. You already know how cold-sensitive you are... and then you still slither to one of the chilliest countries in the world. Who does that?”

“Me apparently. Trust me. I’ve had many second thoughts about all of this.”

“But not enough to get you back to London.”

Now it is Crowley's return to remain silent. He tries to look through the glass at the street outside, but the severe temperature contrast has made the glass steamy and even as he wipes it off he still cannot make out much.

So he sighs again, rubbing his temple and pulling on his cigarette once more.

“No.”

“ Is it because of him? Because if it is then...”

"No!" Crowley cuts Aziraphale short, "No, it is not because of him. Not only. It is about something else. It is about something important."

“Can you tell me what it is?”

“Not yet, angel. It is not yet...perfect.”

“Perfect? I am afraid, my dear, that I don’t follow you.”

A weak chuckle from the demon as he leans against the booth: “I know that. You aren’t supposed to follow me. But trust me...when it is ready...when it is perfect...I will let you know.”

“Do I...want to know?” the angel asks carefully, uncertainty evident in his tone.

Crowley thinks for a moment before answering with a mysterious shadow of a smile caressing his lips: " I don't know. I’ll leave that up to you."

“I know that tone, Crowley. You are up to something.”

Crowley laughs at this and then murmurs into the phone, the voice made alluringly husky by the smoke that has swept through his throat: “I am a demon, Aziraphale. I am always up to something.”

He glances down at his modern wristwatch that on anybody else’s wrist would have stopped working weeks ago. His works perfectly and the price of that perfection is the rise of the panic inside his stomach, sprinting its way up into his eyes.

"Shoot! I am getting late! Anyway, great talking with you. Stay on the lines of virtue or whatever they say and you shall hear from me soon. Gotta run!  Пака!” 1

“Пака? Crowley, what is going on? What are you late for? Crowley? Crowley!" Aziraphale's voice in the London's bookshop sounds rather desperate and worried, which it, of course, shouldn't be, considering that the person, who manages to make Aziraphale frown and keep from sipping his cocoa and continue reading Kafka's "Die Verwandlung"2 for the third time, is, in fact, a demon.

In the end, none of it matters anyway because the angel's raspy calls remain in the phone booth, dangling from the curled wire and bouncing slightly up-and-down, unheard and unanswered.

The demon has already run away and the only thing staying behind is the faint smell of his cologne of sandalwood and soft tobacco of the cigarette which unfortunately does not reach the angel on the other side, although that said angel had indeed imagined himself exactly that smell the moment he heard the demon’s voice, which he most definitely does not admit that he had missed.

He can already hear the familiar tunes of the piano from the end of the corridor. If only he could make it before Kartashov.

Crowley is sprinting through the halls of the academy, jumping over the loose pieces of the floor or anything else really that blocks his way.

He doesn’t even need a miracle to swing himself over the cleaning tray.

He does need a miracle, however, to make it just on time. And he had used one already to make it to the old building in record time.

The thing was that when it came to Kartashov no miracle, be it demonic or not, seemed to work.

Crowley always escaped trouble and yet still felt like he had got it all the same when Kartashov gave him a look. Any look. But mostly very critical and unimpressed and Crowley still had not figured out why he tries so bloody hard.

He breathes out in relief when the practice hall has no sign of the old master and he can run to his spot at the third barre.

“Anton! How come you are nearly late again?”

Olga Mirajevna scolds him, already doing her pliés. She is one of those who has “prestige” as her middle name since her birth, starting from the family of former party members and ending with her current job.

But there is yet another aspect that makes her that more irritating.

She is actually a good dancer.

Crowley decides to keep his mouth shut. If he begins to talk, he will lose the valuable extra time that he has without Kartashov.

In the dressing room, he had been fast as lightning, throwing his outer clothes into the locker.

What he had forgotten however was to bandage up his feet for the practice. He might be a demon, but eight years of dancing have done some damage to his body regardless. He could have it miracled away, keep his entirety in the perfect state of immortality.

But the thing is...he did not want any of that.

He wanted those inconvenient blisters on his feet. He wanted the cuts and bloody toes from hours of standing on them, tiptoeing, leaping and landing. He wanted this pain in his life. The pain that follows the deformity of his bones, crushed into this new shape by the tight shoes and abnormal positions.

Everything about him is abnormal and that is why he revels in the centre of this demanding art form that is all about expressing the innermost conflicts without a word.

An art form that worships pain and beauty like demigods.

Beauty is a lie. An illusion.

Pain is the truth. A reality.

And that is why Crowley can be found in the practice hall number 312 in Bolshoi, the centre of Russian ballet.

He is here for the pain. Just like every other demon.

Hell is about the pain after all.

“You forgot about the feet, Anton. Kartashov will notice,” Ilja Samajenov whispers into the ginger’s ear as he grabs his toe and does his normal stretching routine.

“Don’t you think I know?” the demon hisses back, pushing his dark glasses more up his nose.

He shouldn’t have them. Nobody wears glasses in here, but he cannot help it and there went one of his other miracles. To keep people from asking too many questions.

He glances down at his feet. He could do one more miracle. Perhaps win himself a bit of time. Erase people’s memories. He could do this. He has enough energy and allowance for that.

And then all his plans are blown up to the sky like tens of thousands of pounds on new year’s eve. Or here in Moscow the equivalent would be rubles.

Millions of rubles.

Million thoughts contained in this one millisecond.

A millisecond when piano stops playing. When the dancers do their final stretch and form the first position.

180 impeccable degrees between two feet with the ankles placed against each other, their flawless straightness climbing up the spine and doing a twirl on the very top of the head.

The centre of the balance.

These are the dancers trained to perfection and all of them welcome Igor Sergeyevich Kartashov, The Ballet Master.  
With capital letters.

Igor Kartashov is not a person. He is a presence.

Hell can claim that they are full of the most fearsome creatures, whose sole purpose is to make your worst nightmares become a horrible reality, yet in Crowley's eyes, they have nothing to put against Kartashov.

Being intimidating is effortless to him. Pleasing him is impossible.

It certainly is for Crowley.

He had done it again. That thing he hates and he blesses himself every time for it.

All of them had managed to stand up and try to be the depiction of perfection that was drilled into their minds and bodies.

And what had he done?

He had frozen.

Like the Neva on the coldest day of winter far up north in St Petersburg.

Scratch that.

The Neva does not freeze.

Not like Crowley, who had bent down to reach for his feet and had wanted to miracle bandages around them.

The Neva always flows, underneath the ice, it moves. Even Russian Winter cannot stop it.

But in Crowley’s case...

Even the slow...elegant...precise steps...that echo on the wooden floor of the hall...are not enough to make him rise up.

Not enough to make him blink.

He knows who approaches him and that is the exact reason why he is not the Neva.

It is heavily confirmed when those footsteps stop beside him.

Crowley can see his shoes, despite not looking at them at all.

And just like everything the owner demands and everything he represents...those shoes must be and are flawless.

“Anton Antonovich Kroulev, what are you inspecting down there?”

The voice of calmness and mild amusement. The voice that captures you with its raspiness and keeps you in its depth.

The pacing is temperate, following the rhythm of the balanced flow of the classical waltz.

It has beauty and age to it, and it is enough to keep Crowley’s lips sealed.

Sealed until he realizes that without an answer The Ballet Master won’t leave or continue his class.

“Nothing, master. I was doing my stretching.”

“And why did you not finish when the class started?”

The wording.

Kartashov said that the class had started.  
He had also said that he had not finished.

Crowley represses the strong desire to gulp. He cannot allow anything more to give Kartashov a reason to reprimand him.

He had already failed.

Because if Igor Kartashov phrases things like that then...

“I was late.”

“You were late.”

Crowley had lost the fight today. One mistake is enough to make the person irredeemable in the eyes of The Ballet Master for the rest of the day.

There is no going back when the note drops on the last syllable.

He had disappointed Kartashov once again.

There is a sigh from the old master.

“Stand up and let us proceed with the class.”

Flawless shoes walk away.

Crowley grits his teeth when finally the ice of his body melts and he is competent enough to stand up again.

To be aligned with perfection. He places his hand on the barre and takes in the first position.

Just like the rest of them.

But today he is not rest of them. He never is the rest of them.

"Antonovich Kroulev..." the master turns around and his grey eyes that shimmer like the diamond blade in their sharpness and colour, are on Crowley once more. "Those glasses do not belong in ballet and are most certainly not shielding your vision today. No wonder time flew you by."

Crowley’s mind is ablaze due to this demand.

He hates it. He hates it when he is forced to remove his sunglasses.

These are his. It is his right to put them on and take them off when he pleases. When he needs to.

Aziraphale had always understood this. He had always respected Crowley’s boundaries.

But Aziraphale is not here.

And why is he complaining?

Crowley knew the purpose of his leave from London.

Kartashov is waiting for him. They all are.

Crowley takes a deep breath and slowly removes his glasses, placing them aside next to his water bottle.

Kartashov nods and then sits down on the chair.

The music begins to play again and the whole company proceeds to demonstrate their skills in exceptional technique, accuracy and synchronization through the simple practice program that will last precisely for 21 minutes and 34 seconds.

They all had counted. They all had mastered it.

Nothing else could possibly do.

The man sitting, wearing a slightly old-fashioned but still well-fitting earthly green tweed suit had created this practice program.

It had never failed him throughout 46 years that he had spent in Bolshoi and it does not do so today.

He observes every movement of every dancer.

The only way you know you have escaped his judgment is when he does not make a sound while looking at you.

If there is a sigh or a scratch of a finger on the eyebrow or anything else, then you know that today you aren’t good enough for him and not being good enough for him means that you are not good enough for ballet and dance.

That is just the way how things are because he is The Ballet Master.

In Bolshoi, he is the ballet.

And today Crowley is not good enough. Kartashov did not react in any way when he looked at Crowley doing tendu croisé devant, but he had been late in his eyes.

He was imperfect in the hall that demanded perfection.

His eyes are still serpentine, but humans do not see them like this. Humans see a regular pair of hazel eyes.

He had managed to use one miracle after all, but not on his feet.

Crowley knows that Kartashov had noticed the lack of bandages, yet he had not commented on it. Had not sent him away to fix himself.

Kartashov does not want Crowley to fix his mistakes. He wants him to march on and never make another one again.

This man did not respect the ginger’s boundaries but he did push them and this is exactly why Crowley tolerates this judgment and humiliation.

It is pain and pain is why he left London.

And pain is why he is here, doing pâté pures, crushing his toes with his own weight and still aims to achieve the masterfulness he does not reach today and has not reached for the past eight years he has spent here.

Yet it keeps him going. It feeds the flame inside of him.

The spark of something rebellious and when he turns his back to Igor Katarshov, the demon cannot hold back that tiny smirk on his lips.

A smirk of defiance.

And it grows just a little wider when he sees the reflection of The Ballet Master and it is clear that he had noticed.

That is exactly what Crowley had hoped for.

Kartashov does not react.

And Crowley feels that perhaps he is a little closer to perfection.

He still thinks about it. How ridiculous is that?

It has been two years since Crowley had called him and he still reminisces about the sound of his voice and the meaning of his words.

Not every day obviously. Far from it. He had more important things to do than occupy his mind with such trivial thoughts about a regular conversation they had a couple of years ago.

This is stupid.

And yet on those days when dull reports had been sent up to Heaven; when Mrs Pally's cat was feeling alright again and she had given a whole tray of fresh blueberry muffins, even though he had constantly said that he does not need anything and it always took Mrs Pally only one more sentence to convince him otherwise, muffins that now rest on his coffee table and he himself has comfortably settled into his armchair with a book in his lap that he knows he is not going to read today because on those days Aziraphale always thinks of Crowley.

Well, it initially does not start out that way. For Aziraphale, it usually begins when he catches the train of thought on some rather random subject, prompted by something that had happened to him recently and when he proceeds to go and analyze it then he finds a perfect quote related to the topic at hand.

The trouble is that this quote is on most circumstances something that Crowley had said and once Crowley is in his thoughts, he does not leave.

He just won’t. That demon is stubborn and persistent even in Aziraphale’s head and it drives him so mad that he eats the whole tray of muffins in an hour.

That sly Serpent — he then thinks grumpily.

That’s how it usually goes, but today it is much simpler than that.

Today, if he is being extremely honest, he just misses him.

He misses that slender demon splayed out on his couch, ready to philosophize about anything and even though it is Aziraphale’s task to oppose him, the angel finds himself more often than not, agreeing with the demon’s ideas.

When Crowley talks things just make much more sense. Maybe that is what he is supposed to do as a demon, but frankly, at this point, which is ever since The Arrangement, Aziraphale really does not care.

He just wants to get his...oh bugger! His friend. He wants his friend back and that is why he thinks about that husky voice from the other side of the phone and the words.

He will know when it is ready. When it is perfect.

What on Earth had Crowley been talking about?

Aziraphale growls in frustration, ruffling his curls with his hand. It is a motion he rarely does. He does not think of it as an especially dignified act and so he tends to refrain from it.

Suddenly a clack.

Something fell through the door.

The angel stands up, his back cracking as he does so.

At the front door, he leans down to pick up his mail.

"Celestial Observer", "The Times", "The Guardian", antiquarians' society newsletter, a letter from Russia, an advertisement to a new shop in the neighbourhood, a coupon leaflet.

“Wait a minute!” Aziraphale gasps out loud, throwing the other items carelessly on the table while in his hands remains a letter with several international stamps plastered on it.

A letter with handwriting he knows far too well.

Slowly he walks back to sit in his armchair. He regards the envelope in his hands. It has something in it based on a certain amount of thickness and heaviness.

Aziraphale wiggles in excitement.

On the one hand, he wants to savour this moment when he can hold something so precious and mysterious. When the contents are not yet revealed. When he can let his imagination run wild.

On the other hand, he wants to already know what had Crowley sent him.

Because this is from Crowley. It has to be. The location and the handwriting give him away and in the back, there is his name.

It has been changed but it is his name.

Anton Antonovich Kroulev is Anthony J. Crowley.

Angel runs his fingers over the name and a warm smile appears on his face.

He stands up again to pick up a silver paper-knife, enabling him to open the envelope as neatly as possible.

One deep breath and Aziraphale looks inside.

There are two things in it.

First there is something thin and made out of paper. Aziraphale slips his fingers in to pull it out and proceed to inspect it.

The angel’s eyes, which currently lean more towards shades of green and brown, light up once he understands what he is gifted.

Three keywords printed on this one piece of paper are enough to call out three reactions from Aziraphale.

Большой театр 3 in the top middle causes Aziraphale to smile with nostalgia.

Ballet anthology “Возрождение” 4 makes Aziraphale sigh and the placement of the seat makes Aziraphale swoon.

He had been to Bolshoi before. He knows that Crowley had provided him with the best seat in the house and Russian ballet...it is simply out of this world.

The fact that Aziraphale has high appreciation for literature is a common knowledge to everyone on Earth and in both Heaven and Hell. Everyone who knows about the existence of Aziraphale, knows this about him.

However, what is a little less obvious is his equally passionate love for theatre. Opera and ballet - to be more precise. Oh, Principality Aziraphale fancies a good drama every now and then, but something about the productions that have brought the art of song and dance into this refined form, touches the angel’s soul.

Perhaps it is not only about the thing itself but the whole ritual. The preparation, the arrival, the anticipation and then finally...the show itself.

Aziraphale cannot even remember the last time he was at the theatre, but he knows that he was with Crowley. He does not remember much about what they saw but for some reason he remembers what Crowley had worn.

Crowley had presented as a woman back then and she had worn a gorgeous emerald green silk dress that complimented every small curve of her body. Her hands were covered with opera gloves, adding even more elegance to her. And jewelry. He remembers how five roads of pearls decorated her neck with an emerald being the very centre of this piece.

He remembers how the room had suddenly become much hotter when Crowley had her coat removed, revealing the soft rose skin of her bared back and the delicate silhouette of her female body. The Serpent must have had turned up the temperature of the grand hall, because Aziraphale could have sworn that he had been perfectly cool in his white tie until Crowley had looked over her shoulder and smiled at him in that sly flirty way that she sometimes does. Usually when she had gotten exactly what she had wanted.

And even now Crowley, who is thousands of miles away, seems to be able to manipulate Aziraphale’s room temperature because the heat that wasn’t there before suddenly pinches his cheeks.

“Enough of that!” Aziraphale exclaims to himself, while shaking his head and trying to get rid of the image in his head of Crowley smiling just like that.

Just like a proud tempter who used to lounge on the couch behind the angel with his slender legs resting on it, even when Aziraphale scolds. Especially when he scolds and Crowley wants to be just a tad bit provocative.

On the coffee table there is a wine. A wine they were supposed to drink together on that evening.

But then Death had taken The Singer of Songs, Crowley had fled without a word and Aziraphale was left all alone.

He shouldn’t have minded. He wasn’t Crowley’s babysitter. They both had their own lives and yet when you spend 6000 years sharing first the Earth, then conversations and finally drinks; when each century had made their meetings more frequent; when years apart turned into months and weeks then frankly Aziraphale finds himself in a position when he cannot help but to be bothered, slightly offended and feeling a little abandoned.

So, in the light of all of this Aziraphale finds his mind’s tendency to entertain him with images of Crowley smiling to him most inconvenient. Especially when there is no hope in seeing him soon.

But there is now. Because Aziraphale had received a ticket to ballet and ever since “Hamlet”, Crowley had never let Aziraphale go to the theatre alone.

The angel sighs, putting the ticket aside. It is time to see what the second object is about.

He pulls out the small package. An eyebrow lift is accompanying the crumbling of the paper as he unpacks.

“Oh my!” he gasps when the content is revealed.

It is tiny and yet so beautiful with gold trimming the cover and the edges of the pages. This must be the smallest print of “Евгений Онегин” 5 he has ever seen. It is also the most gorgeous one.

He opens the book. There is no letter in between the pages, but he does find a little something on the very first page.

Crowley’s sigil. He runs his thumb over the mark and a smile so wide that he can feel the appearance of certain type of wrinkles around his eyes makes its way on his lips.

That demon...knowing far too well how to get to his heart. Not in literal sense of course, but just enough so that the angel is left with a fussy feeling that keeps the heat on his cheeks.

Aziraphale is happy. Today he got two precious gifts from his demonic friend. The only thing better than this would be the demon himself.

Is it finally perfect? Whatever it is that Crowley insinuated. — Aziraphale wonders, caressing the tiny book with his finger and before his mind sends him a written warning about what he is about to do, he already does it . Aziraphale has brought the book up and presses a gentle kiss on it. Now, it isn’t a first time occurrence. It has happened to him a couple of times before, but never has it been so...intimate. It wasn’t as if Aziraphale was kissing a book he loves, rather than giving a physical seal of appreciation on the gesture itself. On his friend’s curtesy. And when the memo finally reaches his consciousness, the blond Principality is not quite sure how to react.  
Should he be ashamed of his sentiment?

In the end he decides to let it slide with an appropriate cough to himself which always seems to delete any kind of awkwardness or controversiality from every situation. At least that is what he had learnt from the humans.

He settles the book next to the ticket, sitting back into his armchair, wondering if Crowley was giving him something so special after so many years...does it mean that he has found what he is looking for and is ready to share it with Aziraphale?

The angel does not know how to answer this question. Only the demon does and so the next call made, is to a traveling agency, inquiring about the best options for a trip to Moscow. Preferably including adequate catering.

* * *

  1. Bye!  [ ▲ ]
  2. [”The Metamorphosis”](https://www.kafka-online.info/the-metamorphosis.html) [ ▲ ]
  3. Bolshoi theatre [ ▲ ]
    1. “Rebirth” [ ▲ ]
    2. [”Eugene Onegin”](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugene_Onegin) [ ▲ ]




End file.
